The wind has travelled across a thousand lands, swirled around lovers as they kiss, around soldiers as they die. There should be the history of the world in the scent of the wind but nothing lasts forever.
And who should know better than the immortal relic Methos, five thousand years old and still counting. Who had lived through the dawn of civilisation and seen it destroy itself time and time again, crumbling to dust in the sands of time to rise once again like the fabled Phoenix.
Duncan MacLeod pulled himself from his thoughts, talking a sip of his beer as he looked across at this friend, sprawled in a chair across from him, spinning a tale to their mortal friend Joe, who looked at Methos with disbelief and scepticism.
Duncan smiled at the easy friendship between the two men, Immortal and mortal. Joe was a mere percentage of Methos’ age, but treated the younger looking man with a protective affection that he had never shown to Duncan. Joe had defended Methos against his anger when Methos’ violent and bloody past had reared its ugly head.
Joe, a man born in the twentieth century and who would certainly die in the twenty-first had learnt about history, not lived it, had defend Methos with a viciousness that had surprised Duncan to speechlessness. He had stood there with his mouth hanging open as Joe berated him for being so judgemental. For judging the Methos that had become his friend and not the man Methos was four thousand years ago. The two men, although the same, were completely different.
“He’s five thousand years old, Mac,” Joe had said to him. “Five thousand years old,” he repeated. “Do you have any idea what life was like back then, what he’s lived through? Do you? Or is it just a figure? You can’t judge the Methos you know now; he’s a different man than the one who was alive all those thousands of years ago. Jeez Mac, the man’s older than Christ! He was born before writing, before the Roman Empire, before the Pyramids. Shit, he probably helped build the damn things. He probably helped plant the god-damn hanging gardens of Babylon,” Joe had moved away then, back to the bar and poured himself a scotch, a large one, he hadn’t offered Duncan one.
“He murdered thousands of people, Joe,” Duncan had been compelled to defend. “He enjoyed doing it, he admitted to it. He and the others …….”
“And now Methos likes learning and drinking beer and being a know-it-all son of a bitch,” Joe had countered. “What Methos did was terrible Mac, but it happened. There was no such thing as murder then; consensual sex is a very modern concept. It was kill or be killed. He was born before recorded history Mac, don’t you understand that. You were born and bred in a time of honour, of God, of duty, of chivalry, you can’t judge Methos’ past by that standard, they didn’t exist then.”
They had argued long into the night, neither of them giving an inch, Joe refusing to condemn Methos and Duncan unable to forgive his violent deeds.
And Joe had been right, about everything. Duncan couldn’t comprehend how long Methos had lived, how old he actually was, and that he had lived through every age of man, from stone to modern. He had very nearly destroyed their friendship, both of them, Joe and Methos, by his stubbornness. Methos had welcomed his apology and his hand of friendship almost eagerly, Joe had taken much longer and had made Duncan work hard to mend their friendship.
He smiled as he watched the two of them interact, Joe calling “bullshit” to Methos’ tale, both of them arguing back and forth good naturedly. He took another sip of his beer and thanked god that he still had their friendship, that Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, warrior and skilled swordsman had two of the finest teachers the world had to offer.
They taught him to live in the modern era and to leave history where it belonged…. in the past